


Sick Day

by kellylynnlynn



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Aaron Burr - Freeform, Alexander Hamilton - Freeform, I mean at the end it's fluff, M/M, Not Beta Read, but in the beginning Alexander thinks he's dying, but one of my friends read it over and told me it was alright so like there's that, finally not posting something at six am hey guys improvement, kinda fluff but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 02:03:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7021234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kellylynnlynn/pseuds/kellylynnlynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"When he finally assessed everything his blood ran cold and his heart seemed to stop beating, he was sick"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Day

The minute Alexander woke up that morning he knows something is off. 

Well, for one he barely remembered falling asleep, but he rarely slept anyway, so he quickly wrote it off as pure exhaustion. 

For two, his head felt like there was lead inside of it, and someone was hammering the inside of his skull relentlessly. Every noise, every creek, sounded like hell on earth. 

For three, he just felt achy, like he had been in a fight the night before. But, for once, he hadn't actually gotten into one. 

When he finally assessed everything his blood ran cold and his heart seemed to stop beating, he was sick. 

He couldn't help but remember the last time he was sick like this, remembering lying beside his mother's corpse, unable to do anything but lie there and concentrate on his next breath, wondering which might be his last. 

It was those days that Alexander wished for someone, anyone, to care if he was gone. Sure, he was an alright kid, but people could manage without him. He was completely alone, and that terrified him. 

His mattress felt uncomfortable, too hot, too cold, something. Alexander could barely think, as a result of his pounding head, and that terrified him more than anything. 

He wanted nothing more than to fall asleep again and just sleep the day away, but the thought that he might not wake up again kept him awake. He had so much more work to do, so much more to write. If he died here and now everything would be wasted time. 

He glanced over at his pocket watch, haphazardly placed beside him on the bedside table. The small hands read '10:00', much later than it felt, not that Alexander was ever one to know what time it was, or care for that matter. 

His eyes widened at the watch, he nearly jumped out of bed to get dressed but quickly stopped as he nearly vomited on the floor. He most likely would have if he had eaten anything at all lately. 

He drew in a breath, steadying himself as he gripped the bedside table like a lifeline. Standing was just as painful as breathing, and his lead-filled head seemed to radiate pain as he nearly fell back on his bed again. 

"What the hell." He muttered, before realizing speaking was a terrible idea. His throat seemed to have glass inside of it, crushing his esophagus if he even thought about speaking. 

He couldn't really remember the last time he was sick, the memories were more snapshots than actual memories. He remembered feeling completely and utterly helpless, and feeling just downright terrible. He remembered how cold his skin felt, his hair matted down to his forehead with cold sweat, his eyes peering up and looking around the small room. 

Alexander's hands started to shake, his breathing becoming more rapid, as he thought back to that time. He had just barely escaped death at that time, was it coming back to claim him now? If so, what would happen then? He had a few friends now, unlike all those years ago when he just had his mom. He also had a father now, although he'd never admit it to himself if you put him at gunpoint. George Washington, always standing so tall and proud, what would become of him without his right hand man? 

Thinking of his friends, he wondered if they wondered about his absence yet. Although they would most likely assume he was finally sleeping, or just overworked himself into a coma. Him sleeping was definitely a miracle in itself, especially if he made it to a bed instead of just collapsing wherever he fell, which happened more often than he'd admit. When that happened, of course, Washington usually woke him up gently and lead him to his room, or at least a couch or something. He was no stranger to sleeping on the floor, in fact that's where he did most nights in the Caribbean, but he appreciated the care. 

His bleary eyes scanned the room, barely making out the room, let alone anything inside of it. Even if he were able to stand he doubted he could muster up the energy to actually get properly dressed. He felt exhausted, even more so than he had the pervious night, it was like he hadn't actually slept at all. And yet, the fear kept him awake. 

It was Aaron Burr that suggested that maybe something was wrong with Hamilton, and that's why he hadn't showed up. He wasn't very fond of the idea that he had worked himself into a coma either. And that's how he ended up finding Hamilton, eyes almost glazed over, like he wasn't sure where he was, and clutching his table like it was the only thing keeping him alive. His breathing sounded labored, like each breath needed the force of a thousand horses to get into his lungs. 

Immediately, Burr realized something was wrong. He had seen Hamilton sleep deprived before, and this wasn't it. This was something much more, even though the dark circles on his face were even more pronounced than usual. 

"Hamilton?" He called softly, stepping carefully into the room. 

When that didn't get a response, his worry only rose, "Alexander, are you alright?" 

After what seemed like forever, Hamilton turned his head, and for a second, it was like the didn't recognize Burr. That's what shocked him the most, Alexander always seemed like some unstoppable force, and he seemed taken down by a mere cold. 

"Burr?" His voice sounded scratchy and rough, like he had been yelling for hours, "What are you doing here?" 

"I came to check on you, usually you're awake by now. The others are worried you had worked yourself to death, but we didn't want to bother you in case you were finally sleeping. But, clearly we were wrong about that. Are you okay?" He asked, slowly stepping into Alexander's room. 

"I'm fine, just slept in." Alexander lied, which might've been half way convincing if he hadn't had another dizzy spell and almost fallen, if it weren't for Burr catching him. 

"Alexander, you're clearly not. I don't understand why you're pretending you can be out of sheer willpower." He carefully placed a hand on Alexander's shoulder, only noticing now how small the other man was, how fragile he can be. 

"I'm not sick, I'm fine. I'm not sick." Hamilton repeated to himself, trying to convince himself more than Burr at this point. 

"Ham- Alexander, give it up. You're sick, stop being stubborn and just take the day off." Aaron rolled his eyes slightly, but his insult lacked the usual bitterness, his worry showing through. 

"Can't sleep, might not wake up." And all the puzzle pieces fell into place, why he refused to admit he was sick, why he seemed so terrified, why he just wasn't acting like his Alexander. 

"This is nothing like what you went through when you were young, Alexander, this is just a small cold. It can't kill you. You're safe, I'll stay here with you if you'd like." Burr calmed him, running his fingers softly through Hamilton's hair. 

"Okay." And with one simple word, he fell back asleep, with Burr sitting near him, his fingers still running through his hair. 

Although his worry was still there, with his fingers still laced in Alexander's hair, everything seemed like it might turn out alright.


End file.
